


Four Times Hamilton Broke Up with Burr and One Time Burr Did It Instead

by HamburrgerBites



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 4+1 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, Hurt, Inspired by Music, M/M, One Shot, Unhappy Ending, but i missed out on one lol, it was supposed to be a, kinda abstract, so i guess it's a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamburrgerBites/pseuds/HamburrgerBites
Summary: In which Burr decides to do something Hamilton has done time and again."Please don't do this."





	Four Times Hamilton Broke Up with Burr and One Time Burr Did It Instead

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to [Too Good At Goodbyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPqtlI3aJIE) and this idea sprung out and wouldn't leave me alone. Good thing it's short coz damn, I have so many other projects I should be investing in. Incidentally, [Midnight Train](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5mG0zNcjbs) also fits this fic. Sam Smith is hella good with this particular painful vibe.

The first time it happened, Burr lost himself.

He couldn't quite recall now everything that had transpired, in those days after the words left his boyfriend's mouth. It was like a hangover. A haze. A cloud. He remembered only how his throat burned from screaming. How he was blinded for hours upon hours by his own tears. How he woke up on Bellamy's guestroom bed with bruises throughout his body and a shuddering fever and a migraine. His best friend was sleeping on the floor beside him, blocking the way to the door, and that was how he knew it had been bad—if he had needed a guard.

That first time, Hamilton had come rushing back with roses in his hands and curses against himself on his lips. He cursed his arrogance, his ungratefulness, his hot temper.

But Burr didn't blame him for any of those. He breathed in the sweet fragrance of both the flowers and the tangible relief. Hamilton wiped away the tears from his tired eyes, and Burr knew they would be okay.

* * *

The second time it happened, Burr felt the hurt tenfold.

It was worse, this time, because he was sane in his pain. When he cried, he remembered what he was crying for. When he made himself sick, he was aware whom he was tormenting his body for.

It was worse this time, too, because he knew Hamilton had done it not out of carelessness but out of purposeful spite, knowing it would hurt him. That image plagued his mind as he emptied his stomach and heart. A sneer so horrendous he had scarcely recognise it to be his lover's face. Worse—a sneer horrendous, directed at him.

It took longer for Hamilton to run back to him, but run back eventually he did.

And Burr refilled his frazzled heart.

* * *

On the third time, Burr began to dissociate.

He found himself, somehow and for who knows how long, surrounded by his friends, as he sat still with a warm cup of something that smelled nice.

Someone was saying something, and to be polite, Burr resurfaced to hear the words.

"Does he think this is a game?" It was Madison, and Burr was surprised that the calmest among his friends was almost shouting.

Jefferson was beside him, a palm in the air like he was ready to knock literal sense into Burr's head. "Why do you keep running back to him?" his friend demanded, and Burr pondered, _Am I the one running?_ For he thought it had been Hamilton.

A new voice, dearer, was speaking, so Burr turned to listen.

The mug of warmness was gone from his hands. He was in a different room, a different house. When did he get here? He was wrapped in blankets, a muted television screen flashing something that seemed familiar, yet unrecognisable. What was he...? Oh. Right. Someone dear was saying something. He wanted to listen. Burr turned.

Bellamy watched him with something like agony, something like dread. "So you two are back together again?"

These words, Burr understood immediately. When did that happen? He made a movement that might have been a nod, might have been a shrug.

Under the blankets, his best friend found his hand. "Can you just do one thing for me, Aaron?" It took a while for Burr to realise he needed to answer, so he reenacted the same movement. Bellamy continued, in a voice so quiet it was like he had muted himself, too, "If this happens again... If he hurts you again... Can you promise me you won't go back to him anymore? Can you promise me that? Please?"

This, Burr understood, too.

He made sure his movement was a nod. _Of course_, he said, out loud or otherwise he wasn't sure.

He nodded, and he broke his promise.

* * *

It was on the fourth when Burr thought for the first time that he may not have been in the wrong.

It was different, this time, though so similar. He was already in pain before it happened. Before the words left his boyfriend's lips, Burr was already hurting.

Hamilton regarded him with innocent amusement, first, when Burr forgot to do a simple thing. Then, irritation when Burr seemed to be caught up with unimportant things. And finally, exasperation when Burr snapped at a small thing.

"You are so moody all the damn time!" Hamilton yelled. He yelled, he yelled, he yelled—every scream a thundering in Burr's already frail mind. He yelled, and Burr yelled back, and he yelled in return, and in that moment the reccurring words—_first, second, third, fourth_—left his lips in heated torrents.

Burr was glad when he slammed the door shut behind him.

_You are so moody all the damn time. _Burr laughed even as the tears fell.

It had been his parents' death anniversary.

* * *

The knocks on his door threatened to unhinge his entire being.

It was a day or days later, and Hamilton had realised his wrong. _Again_, but also for the first time.

_Open the door, Aaron. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I forgot—I'd completely forgotten—I'm so sorry—I—_

Burr called in sick at work though he suffered no queasiness. No fever. No migraine. No self-injury. The knocks on his door threatened to unhinge his entire being, so he put on earplugs and brought out his earmuffs. Muted the TV and wrapped himself in blankets, making sure to cover his mouth as he did. He made no sound. It seemed he was always making no sound. When he made no sound, it was as if he didn't exist.

He wished he didn't exist.

He survived three days eating the stock of food he had inside. Outside, the knocks persisted, and at night were replaced with intermittent snoring or sobs, pauses of silence or pleas. Burr ate his food and wondered whether Hamilton ate. Burr showered and wondered whether Hamilton showered. The knocks persisted, unhinging his soul.

On the fourth day, his neighbours called the cops.

Burr watched his sit-com with blind eyes as he listened to the drama unfolding outside. It was loud enough to penetrate through the muffs and plugs. Burr took them off. He heard his name. He heard that voice, _that voice_, his dearest's voice. He couldn't feel his legs as in pieces he walked to the door.

All the voices cut off and all eyes were on him, but Burr sought out the cop's.

"He's with me, Officer."

A sob rose up, and though Burr still didn't feel brave enough, he turned to look at him.

A mess. Was he still wearing that shirt? Wasn't the hold of the officers on him painful? You, my love, look so thin. Are you not hungry? Are you sorry?

"Is this an in-law of yours or something?" one of the cops asked, dubious, as his neighbours whispered among themselves, "How can he be so heartless? The guy's been sitting outside for three days."

"Aaron," Hamilton sobbed, the only voice worth listening to, answering Burr's unspoken questions, and yes, even his tired heart couldn't take it anymore.

"He..." Burr swallowed. Glanced at Hamilton, a mess that though unhinged him, was his most constant and truest balance. "He's my boyfriend."

Like smoke that hadn't been there at all, the crowd dispersed. Hamilton was at his feet, a sobbing, wrecked mess—and Burr saw how it was to be on the other side.

He wondered whether he had strength enough to mend the both of them.

* * *

Burr's head was buzzing, and he knew it was time.

Hamilton had brought him to his house to celebrate a promotion. Burr stared around the room, fond but distant, trying not to memorise too much. He was going to miss this place. He was going to miss...

Hamilton was gushing about getting champagne. He was gushing about the company dinner where he would dance with his beautiful fiancé throughout the night and make everyone jealous. He took Burr's hands and kissed them and laughed and teased and planned their future together—and Burr thought, _Ah._

_I'm going to do it with him like this. I'm going to have to do it on a day he's happy._

Burr shifted in his seat, bracing, and seeing how Hamilton knew to pause to let him speak broke him further.

"We should break up."

Those recurring words, spoken by someone else.

Hamilton had become stone. "Why?" His lips barely moved.

Burr looked away. He was so tired. He had tried to explain to himself the reasons for doing what he was doing for so many months now. And the worst part wasn't the fact that he couldn't find any good reasons for this action. It was that he had found too many.

Hamilton straightened in his seat like he had read Burr's mind. "I'll—" he began. Stopped.

_I'll make it up to you._

Burr knew what he was going to say, because he had said it before. During the second time.

"I'm—" Hamilton stuttered.

_I'm going to change._ This, on the fourth.

Yet however tempestuous the man was, Hamilton did keep the promise of the fourth time. Burr caught him in the mornings checking the calendar. Pausing, steam flowing up his mug of coffee, as he stared at the date and tried to decide whether there were any important occasions. Once bitten, twice shy—In this regard, he had been faithful. But...

Burr shook his head like a final verdict. He knew. They couldn't calibrate. They were parts of a machine that were both unwhole and unworkable. They both knew it.

"I—" Hamilton said, and his voice broke. "I love you."

Oh.

That was new.

Hamilton was on his knees. "Aaron, I love you. I love you. I love you—"

"Alexander, please—"

And Hamilton caught his words as he grasped his hands, voice porcelain. "Aaron, please—Don't leave me. I love you, I love you. Look at me. You know I mean it. We're a whirlwind of conflicting traits, but I can't—I'm unable—I don't want anyone else but you. I love you, Aaron. Please don't do this."

Burr was trembling to his core. He pulled his hands slowly out of Hamilton's grasp, for in his grief he could only do everything gently. "Can you—" he choked, but he looked his ex in the eyes. "Can you delete my number from your phone?"

Hamilton shot to his feet, blanched and stammering. "That—Aaron—Please—I'm not—No way—Aaron—Please—" And now he was babbling. Reaching out to grab at Burr with hands twitching with panic. Burr, gently pulling himself loose.

Burr was turning the doorknob when Hamilton's babbles turned to just one word: _Aaron._

"_Aaron_," as Burr ambled down the stairs with him stumbling along.

"_Aaron_," as Burr raised his arm, slow, to hail a cab.

"_Aaron_," as Burr entered the car and closed it shut without a sound.

"_Aaron_," this, a wail, as Burr glanced back to see him throwing himself onto the pavement.

"_Aaron_," in Burr's head, as he packed his things.

"_Aaron_," haunting Burr's existence, as he drove for five hours.

"Aaron?" Burr's best friend had water from his skin seeping into his hastily worn t-shirt. "What are you doing here?"

"Bell," Burr said—what might have been a lament or a supplication—but his voice was gone.

"_Aaron_," in Burr's head, like gunshot, saying, "_I love you_."

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I like to hurt myself idek. Thanks for reading!


End file.
